


Arrowhead

by VsaFic



Series: That one time tristana almost got longbow’d to death in Demacia after Sylas’ revolution [1]
Category: League of Legends
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, Major Character Injury, Nudity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:53:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23022022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VsaFic/pseuds/VsaFic
Summary: Tristana and Teemo are being screwed by petricite arrowheads, and only the two biggest outlaws of Bandle can un-screw them.—The worst double date ever begins.  Rated M for moderate gore descriptions, innuendo, and non-sexual nudity (a bath).
Relationships: Lulu/Veigar (League of Legends), Teemo/Tristana (League of Legends)
Series: That one time tristana almost got longbow’d to death in Demacia after Sylas’ revolution [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654630
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Speak of a strange impulse, that of writing this down. 
> 
> Soundtrack Selection: Stuck in the Middle with You, by Stealers Wheel

Keeping Tristana conscious feels, at this point, like trying to move water between two cups using only one hand. He’s been clapping by her ear a couple times every five minutes now, startling her awake, and keeps asking questions that she can’t even fully answer anymore—the words slide off into incongruent gargling mid-answer. Every time he stops to inspect her, she appears more pale and sickly, like her soul is leaking out through the wounds along the blood. 

Teemo doesn’t want to panic, but he’s panicking. He’s lost his map of the region in the heat of battle; he and Tristana have warded off up to a dozen Vanguard men trying to interfere with the portals, but never quadruple that. They have enclosed a generous perimeter around the portal the two were supposed to defend, and the attitude towards kin in Demacia’s soured faster than milk in the sun after the populace found out about Poppy. They had no choice but retreat, but Tristana can’t even properly _flee_ at this point; it seems with every step her leg grows duller, giving up on its purpose, the limping slowing their escape. There is no safe way to pull the arrows out—they probably have some kind of embedding method carved in the heads. He’s already tried. Demacia’s mageseeking has grown more hostile than ever. 

His mouth floods with thick drool, stomach spinning with nausea. The leaves of the trees warp into spirals, degrade in a spectrum of colors; he feels like every minute he’s aged a year, and they’ve been moving nonstop for the past three hours. _It’s the end_ , he concludes. Not a rational conclusion, but he’s sacrificed coherence for consciousness. Tristana looks like Kindred’s gonna come for her at any minute. Two arrows shouldn’t cause this deterioration in such short time. Something’s iffy, but he cannot infer _what_.

 _They_ _didn’t_ _even_ _mess_ _with the portals until Poppy_ , he whines inside, cause he’s been pushed beyond steadfastness a while ago. The letter she got, that she shared with them, still makes his fur stand on edge: _A magical creature should not be one to deliver justice with Orlon’s hammer, you are a bastardization of a Keeper, we will purge your bloodline from our land._ All with Jarvan’s seal of approval. Poppy was destroyed when she shared the letter, barely speaking between broken sobs. He hasn’t known much of her since then. The portals have been under constant threat after that, though. This is far from the first time he and Tristana have been deployed to ward humans off. He didn’t expect this was how Bandle City’s power duo would sink, though. 

The radio’s stopped receiving signal sometime ago, and he’s left a final log with tired goodbyes and a debriefing of the situation for the military base in Bandle while it still allowed transmission. He can’t walk anymore: his next spark of awareness, he’s placed Tristana to rest in shock position, nested amidst blankets and bags; her eyes look milky, gold irises dull. She still breathes, fighting, cause she’s stubborn like that. He’s also slumped on the floor instead of walking. He’s gripping the hand of his Commander for dear life, or maybe as farewell. _Please take us together_ , he pleads to Kindred, whoever they may be. _Don’t make me live on without her._

He’s startled awake by the rustling of leaves, muffled voices interspersed. One male, one female, is the scout analysis, cause he can’t turn off duty mode in full if it killed him. They’re not very far. Or maybe they are. Whatever clear picture he got of the forest when his eyes first squinted open has already warped in a maelstrom of textures and shades of green. 

A dark blue shadow looms before him, twisting in wisps. Something cold holds his head, lifts it. _Kindred?_ Is he finally leaving? 

Something glassy’s poking his mouth. He relents. Sour and sweet and sparkling wash his palate. He swallows eagerly. He forgot about drinking at one point. Nothing mattered but keeping Tristana from fainting, keeping her safe. She would have done the same. 

The maelstrom reforms into clearer shapes, and he’s got the Tiny Master of Evil cupping his head with one hand, holding an empty bottle of a mana regeneration potion with the other. He wants to defend, but his attempt at swapping into combat position resembles a seizure, muscles twitching erratically, and so, he falls limp. 

Veigar puts him down in the grass. Blue irises don’t ever look away from him. Yellow irises dig back with equal intensity. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” he spits. Teemo only manages a choked noise back. It can’t be morning, the jungle is still tinted blue with dusk like it was just a few leaps in memory ago. 

“He still can’t talk,” the warlock calls away from him, in Tristana’s general direction. _Oh no._ Teemo manages to veer his head just enough to find the Fae Sorceress standing firm to her right. She is holding her own empty vial, and a quick pan of Teemo’s eyes down, he spots the gunner, a new spark in her eyes, irises darting everywhere, whimpering weakly in fear and confusion.

“Give ‘im another, Love,” the enchantress answers. “We need one of them talking, and she’s much worse off. I just barely managed to wake her.” 

Indeed, she looks like she’s stuck in a limbo between reality and a hallucination. Her eyes look to him, pupils yelling, _what_ _the fuck is going on?_ Over and over. 

He’s picked up by the warlock’s gauntlet a second time, grunts a second noise, distressed but ininteligible. His tongue, his vocal chords, they weigh a ton each. He can’t get them to work together, or independently, mostly not at all. Everything’s blurring. He berates himself for the pleased squeak he lets out when he’s given more to drink; mouth’s so dry it may as well be leather. 

A boulder lifts off his mouth with a fresh wave, and he finally manages something coherent to punch its way out. _Baby steps._ “What...’re you doing?” He manages. The words mash together into paste.

“Messing with you,” is the dry reply. “We were on our way to screw with a bunch of Demacians who set up camp around a Bandle portal. Creep them out a bit. But then Lulu sensed yordle mana in the forest, away from the path. Twenty minutes wandering in the wilderness and lo and behold. Something far more entertaining.” 

Teemo can’t do much more than flutter his eyelids. That’s too much key information with too little preparation or context. He doesn’t understand the minutiae of that narrative; he doesn’t want to dwell on it either— he’s weak and at the enemy’s mercy, and he needs a way out now. 

“Do anythin to Tristana and yer last time in jail’ll feel like ‘twas a walk in th’ park.” 

The words stumble over each other; his voice is hoarse. It sounds pathetic. The warlock knows it. He laughs. 

“I’ll never stop until I’ve made y’ regret ev’r living.” 

Veigar’s smirk dies immediately, a scowl taking its place. “You’re going to want to quit the big talk when you’re filled in on what’s up with your lady,” he drones. 

Indeed, Teemo shuts up immediately. He turns to look at the gunner again—She’s got a serious thousand yard stare, her breathing shallow, fast, panicked. Her fingers tremble with pain and shock; she looks as if holding to consciousness by a thread that’s slowly ripping. 

“Good boy,” Veigar says snidely. “Zip that mouth up and listen to what we have to say to you for a single _goddamn_ time.” 

He wants to snap back some real choice words, but Tristana matters more to him that Veigar ever will; he nods in agreement. The motion makes his head spin. The warlock waits until he’s regained focus to continue in a display of patience that throws him for a loop. 

“Demacia’s not a cool place to be a yordle right now,” he begins, crouching next to Teemo, holding his weight on a knee and a foot. “Actually, not a cool place to be anything _tangentially_ _magic-related_. But they really got an itch with us in particular, since mana flows in us like blood; we have magic in every inch, one of us was carrying none other than Orlon’s Hammer. Jarvan feels like we’ve _tainted_ _his_ _land_.” He adds a couple sarcastic air quotes to those three words. 

“Anyway, a lot of Demacia’s gold is being burned on stuff that can be used to kill and trap mages, and Vastaya, and yours truly. Their newest toy is these cute little arrows with petricite tips.” 

Teemo feels like his blood is freezing in his veins, and cutting his circulatory system to shreds with every heartbeat. 

“I’m sure you got a record of what it is now, but if you haven’t got it, it’s the same mineral they use around these parts to stomp us magic users into submission. The fairy dust police use it in little badges; get one close enough to someone with mana, and the stone will begin sucking it up like a sponge. Don’t even have to touch the poor bastard with it most of the time.” He’s made a little gesture with his claw, showing Teemo their approximate size. “Get one of those carved so sharp it cuts your eyes if you look at it, and then put that inside a mage... you can figure out the sponge’s gonna be sucking up a lot.” 

Yes, Teemo figures it out. He wants to vomit. His mouth fills up with warm saliva as he struggles not to. 

“Mix that up with the fact we have mana in our meat like we do blood, and... well, you may be a lot of things, but dumb ain’t one. Go ahead, put two and two together.” The warlock stands back up; he can see him take a minute to re-balance and blink—He’s playing it cool, but the petricite stabbed in Tristana is starting to kick him a bit, too. 

“The assholes even cut the heads so they really dig in, are hard to pull out. Rip a good chunk of meat if you try.” 

Blue eyes squint tight in a wince of pain. He can’t really word what he feels without sitting down to really think about it, and he can’t afford that. _What can we do, then?_

When they open back up, Veigar’s are digging inside the depths of his soul. He has a penchant for staring into people like that. “So here’s the deal.” 

_Yes, the deal, please._ Tristana’s spasming in pain on the blanket bed; her eyes roll back and a thin line of drool drips out the corner of her lips. _Please, please just tell me the deal._

He tracks footsteps on grass, and Lulu’s there too, turning Veigar’s glare into a four-eye sonata. “I know how to remove the tips and heal someone who’s been stabbed with them. I got... field practice.” She doesn’t have the debonair inflection Teemo knew her to have. Her words are sour, unusually technical. “Vei knows how to destroy them. You are at least a couple hours away from any path people _actually_ walk. She doesn’t have enough time to make it to anything civilized, and even if she did, Demacians will gut her on the spot. I will nurse her back to health, and you will quit your efforts on stopping us and our plans. You will not backstab us, you will not attack us, or berate us, or be hostile in any way. That is our deal.” 

_Speak of a rock and a hard place._ Teemo’s teeth grind against one another, letting out a few stressed cracks. The sorceress kneels before Tristana, feeding her more mana from a new vial, and she perks just barely; groans adversely at Lulu, stares her down with eyes that yell a feeling somewhere between rage and distress. 

“Y’both ‘re disgusteng,” Teemo spits at Veigar, the sentence dull. 

“Okay,” Lulu says, back on her heels so alarmingly fast it makes his head spin. “Die, then.” 

She’s reaching for her bags, flipping a purple curl behind her ear with surprising grace, and that’s when Tristana lets out a broken, bubbling sob. It sounds like she’s weeping while half her face is underwater, and when she rests her head again, blood and drool spills down her jaw in a thick glob. That he cannot take. 

“We’ll d’ it,” he sighs, fighting every word out. “We’ll take’t. Just get her okay. Please, tha’s all I ask. I’ll d’whaddever.” 

Lulu’s frozen into place, still as a statue: She snaps her face to look at Veigar. He nods. Mechanical noises make Teemo’s ear twitch, and he turns to see the warlock’s gauntlet loosening, falling to the grass with a dull thump. He reaches out, a bare, calloused black hand pointing needle-sharp claws at him. “We’re making a pact on it.” 

He swallows, nods just barely. His arm weighs like a boulder; lifting it off the ground makes his muscles scream. The hand’s just an inch off the floor when the mage growls, baring fangs at him. “Glove off, bastard,” he threatens; his other hand, still encased in a gauntlet, stabs the soil with his staff as reinforcement. 

Teemo has to lean his head down to pull the scout uniform glove out of the way with just his fangs—moving two hands is impossible—and spits the olive mitten out, tongue full of the taste of leather and mud. He doesn’t even truly squeeze Veigar’s hand, just coils his fingers around awkwardly; and, when the wizard shakes, Teemo’s arm bounces like a noodle, no grace or strength to it. As if on cue, the moment he lets the captain’s hand drop to the grass, Lulu’s already summoning her little fae familiar with a whistle, its small insectoid arms just slim enough to help dig the arrowheads out of his mate. 

He allows his own dead weight to pull him away from the view, the fleshy noises and Tristana’s whines more than he can bear. 

“They’re out,” he hears the witch chirp, backed by the sobs of the commander. Veigar treads the distance to her with heavy steps. _How much does that armor weigh, anyway?_

“Gimme,” he orders, and Teemo braves through pulling his head up and holding it there to see the bodies of crime: sharpened to an impeccable tip and barbed all through the edge’s length. Easy for them to go in, destructive when they’re not pulled out with care. _Barbaric_. 

Veigar holds them in a pinch with each hand, mumbles a spell. Dark bolts laced with indigo snake all over the petricite, snapping both tips in two clean halves after a second of buildup. The warlock appears to see Teemo’s confusion peripherally, answers his unspoken question. “Breaking petricite is just overwhelming it; giving it a bigger charge than it can absorb. Manageable with small pieces like these—impossible with structures the size of Demacian buildings. This here wasn’t even a mild spell. They’re not easily destructible for a layman.” 

_Good thing you’re not a layman,_ Teemo muses, detesting the fact that’s a positive. He can see Lulu working frantically through the corner of his eye, stopping Tristana’s bleeding; she lifts an index to her sweaty forehead, poking it with a dainty nail. “Sleep,” she whispers, shooting a pink spark, and the gunner’s quiet weeping becomes a peaceful snore. Pix flutters around Lulu carrying needle and thread, and the captain’s rather shocked at how deftly she cleans and sutures the wounds, no pause or hesitation; in about ten minutes tops, holding a ball of white light with her staff, she’s prepared an antiseptic compress and wrapped the wounds up rather neatly. 

Teemo only saw the bud of her healer career, and every time he gets glimpses of her skill after her banishment, he’s impressed, bothersome as it is to admit. They‘re harder to chase and terrorize when he holds admiration towards them. Still, he‘s not above showing due respect. He can’t be. Underestimation is the weakness of a warrior. 

Light leaking through his eyelids snaps him out of a brief respite after seeing Tristana doze comfortably, a symbol for mana restoration painted in a gauze on her abdomen glowing gentle purple in even pulses. Heavy eye bags still stain her face, and she’s ghostly pale, but her deep, gentle breathing and peaceful face is enough for him. He cracks his eyes open with gargantuan effort, pushes to fully open them only when he feels gauze being taped to the fur of his chest: The sorceress is painting a second sigil on him, using thread wrapped around her finger to make the circle perfect and putting it down in few, expert strokes. It’s jarring to see how she’s grown since she left; Teemo’s weirded out by the empty nest sensations leaking from his heart.

With a tap, the sigil is glowing—Strikingly similar to Tristana’s, but tinted green— and he feels like he’s been fed after days of hunger; the fur of his back fluffs up in a pleased shiver as the pain and exhaustion simmer and his pupils re-focus and expand to accommodate the dimming light. He sighs contentedly, he cannot help it. Lulu observes him sporting an expression he can’t read. 

“What?” He croaks. 

“Let it kick in and take Trist on your back,” she states matter-of-factly. “She’s your heart and soul, your mate. You will carry her with more care than Veigar or I could. We will take you to our hideout. We best be there before everything‘s pitch black. Give it ten minutes at most.” She does not wait for him to reply—Looks down at her wrist, though there’s no watch; last word and she’s gone in a flutter, idly chatting with Veigar in whispers while she packs up her herbs and the gauze, and he buries the arrow heads in quickly dug, shallow crevices, magicking them sealed. 

Teemo doesn’t really feel like moving, but duty mode’s already rooting its way in his brain while he enjoys the leftover minutes of peace. With duty mode comes the heavy realization, seeping in, that he’s being taken to the lion’s den, Tristana in hand, and not even by force. Adrenaline finishes the pump of mana needed to jerk him out of semi-somnolence, and he inhales, sharp and on edge: Not much left but the Captain of the Mothership Scouts. 

By the time Lulu’s done buckling the belts of her luggage, he’s already geared up and slung the gunner on his back, her head resting on the red scarf around his neck and shoulders. Veigar relieves him off the cannon’s weight, loading himself with it, aided by what has to be strength-enhancing magic. Teemo feels like he’s filthying his woman’s treasured old friend just by touching it—but there is nothing he can do. And off they are, minuscule, traversing the depths of the Demacian wilderness; moonlight leaking through leaves, dotting the grass with sparks of light not unlike the stars sprinkled above, on the vast night sky. 


	2. She awakens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha oh no I never thought I would post this as a second chapter. I don’t think this should go beyond three though 
> 
> No soundtrack for this one, forgive me

The first thing she sees is a slow, swirling spiral of purple and green. The first thing she feels is searing pain. Voices warp and paint waves beneath her eyelids, blue, teal; spikes of orange and yellow. _What_ _happened_?

_You got arrow’d_ , she answers.

_What happened after that?_

_We don’t know._

Whatever stasis she’s been into, it fades, broken amid lapses of consciousness and rest. Her fingers tingle, something burns in her belly. One leg is missing. _Wake up, where’s your leg_?

_Not yet, I want to sleep some more._

_Wake up. Wake up!_

_We don’t know where we are._

_Soft..._

_That’s a hand on our forehead._

_We are so sweaty, Trist..._

_—A shower, a shower sounds so good—_

_Left_ _leg’s toes are okay._

_Where is your right leg, Tristana?_

Finger wiggles. _Oh gods, it’s coming back. It hurts._

_Something’s running their fingers through your hair._

_They feel cold..._

She smiles. It feels like that takes way more dexterity than it should. When her eyelids open, they make a noise like the big wooden doors at the military base; creaking and heavy and it makes the fluids in her body reverb.

Purple smears, oh, blue eyes. _What_ _beautiful_ _hair_! And, it’s gone.

 _What’s that_ _voice_ _saying_?

What a wonderful voice. Blue eyes has the voice.

“Handsome,” she groans. It all hurts so much. _Ow, my belly..._

 _Ants are crawling all over my scalp and my fingers._ “Are you single?”

Laughter. “No, I’ve got a mate.”

“Shame”. Eardrums are thumping. Her brow furrows. “I’ll steal you from her.”

Blue eyes has a hand, and it strokes her cheek.

It’s so warm outside now. She inhales. Sharp. Her head is resting on a pillow. Everything feels plush and soft, yet she still feels so tired. She flutters her eyelids. The ceiling looks like a curtain.

 _What_? 

She jumps. The surroundings are not her house. They are not the military base. They are not in any way familiar and that means danger; Commander Tristana takes the wheel, and in a split second her ears are sharp and her eyes focus and she’s sitting up full speed, and in yet another, flames of pain are burning somewhere in her abdomen, rippling through her body, so intense it makes her double down on herself. A pair of hands holds her shoulders, left leg bucks up in an instinctual response of curling into fetal position. Her right doesn’t budge, it sends her brain on a frenzy. _Fuck’s going on?_

 _  
_“You’re awake,” Teemo says, his hands tightening around her shoulders, grounding her. She can barely process the sentence through the stab in her gut. “Oh gods, you’re awake.” He sounds alarmed and relieved, both emotions shaken into a paradoxical milkshake.

“Where am I?” She grunts, choked by the unexpected piercing onslaught. She’s suddenly aware of how sore everything is. Even his hold on her feels painful. “What happen’d after th’fite?” Gods, her entire mouth is just as heavy. She squeezes her eyes. “Fffffuck.”

“Lean back,” he orders in captain fashion. “You’re down. Go slow. You got hit in your abdomen.” He’s let go of one of her shoulders to quickly reshuffle her pillow so she can sit up against the bed frame.

He’s so strong, yet so gentle. She feels compelled to pull him in bed with her, where she can cuddle up to him and never move again. _Get it together, you’re acting like an animal._

Her back thuds gently against the pillow, and she breathes, shallow, until the stab subsides into tolerable levels. Only then does she look at him. He’s topless, there’s a gauze with a magical symbol on his chest, swirling gently; down in her own wrist sits an open canal for IV support. It does exactly fuck all to contextualize her. 

“Cap’n,” she calls. Her voice is shaky, and she wants to punch herself. She hates being this vulnerable, even in front of him. “Wassup?” 

There was probably a better way to phrase the question, but her brain feels like it’s steaming in a pot just from being awake. 

“Hey,” he says, releasing her shoulder. “You got hit bad out there. Two arrows. They made you sick, so you’re recovering now. I also got sick, and I’m also getting healed. I’ve been by your bed waiting for you to wake up proper, you’ve been in and outta Runeterra for two nights before today.” He chuckles, and it’s dripping such relief that she once more feels prompted by her most primal genes to pull him by the neck and make out with him real good then and there. 

“Was it poison?” She mutters, the P popping awkwardly. Gods, it feels like her tongue is the length of her entire body, and her entire body is so cumbersome. “You know what... why... why are you hurt? You ok?” _Aren’t you like the poison master? Why are **you** sick of all people?_

“Breathe,” is his answer. He lands a palm on her thigh. She feels exactly nothing, like he’s touching air next to her. Her heart races, and breathe she does, three inhales, three exhales, gone in an instant.

“ _Teemo_!” She whimpers, jumping up again and flopping back down like a rag doll when pain pierces her. “Dammit! Oh gods, Teemo, I can’t feel th’s leg.” She tries to lift it, move it, point to it somehow; no answer. “I can’t move it! I can’t move my leg! Teemo! _No_! How am I goin’ to—“

“ _Breathe_ , Tristana,” he echoes, colder this time, more authoritarian. The hand on her thigh shoots to hold her hand instead and gives a reaffirming squeeze. She squeezes back, doubly hard. “They were not ordinary arrows. They had an area of effect. You got hit the hardest, they were in your guts and your thigh after all. Your leg’s just dead from the effect. You’ve been trying to wriggle it sometimes when you tried waking up before. It’ll get better.”

He’s tiptoeing awkwardly around the specifics of _what_ the arrows had, and that unsettles her. He’s never the type to do so, albeit he’s not one to do things unreasonably, either. There must be a motive to his non-disclosure; his eyes glint with awkwardness he’s trying hard to conceal, too.

She doesn’t feel like torturing him, doesn’t have the energy to play bad-cop and pry it out of him. Sickness stomps her into just following the guessing game. She takes a second, two, just to sigh deep. _Commanders_ _can’t command while blind with fear and rage._

Carefully, she ponders what card to play. He’s being so uncharacteristically vague.

“How did we get ‘ere? Why aren’t we at the site of th’ portal?”

This is clearly not any familiar place in Bandle. Both know it; she omits the observation. 

“We got found when you were already losing the fight to the arrows. We’d been walking circles through Demacian forest for hours. Jarvan’s army took the portal. We were outnumbered heavily, we had to flee. I was so hazy I lost my map. We lucked out, Trist.” 

Hell of a lucky shot, alright. “Shit,” she spits. “Th’portal.” 

“Portal’s irrelevant to me right now.” He shrugs, again with that mix of anxiety and relief. “I really thought I was losing you while you flipped your crap on the bed. I’m just glad you’re up and we can get your leg back. It’ll take a while, but you’re alive. We can take care of the portal later.” 

_Gods, just kiss me, you absolute cheesy dumbass._

“Wait. We were wandering the woods ‘f Demacia, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

“We’re still in Demacia.” 

“Yeah.” 

_Bingo_. “...Everything in here is small enough for us, though.” Indeed, everything around them is appropriately yordle-sized. 

Teemo rubs his face with a hand, chuckling. He’s cracking open. She’s not about to stop the assault just now. “You’ve got a rune spell acting on y’r chest, but we are in Demacia. Demacian assholes were trying to break one of our portals cause they think they’re gonna die if a yordle touches ‘en, or something.” 

She doesn’t need to ask the question—Teemo knows her, and she knows him; both know it’s hanging there, out in the open. _Boom_. 

“It’s a mana regeneration spell,” he says. He’s stumbling with words, and though Tristana knows he can show his soft belly while around her, it still makes dread climb up her spine to see him this fiddly. “I told you, we were found.” 

He swallows. No mention of who their savior was, either; that makes her dread worse.

He can see it in her face, and she knows he can. They’ve learned to read each other so well it foils any semblance of stoicism. All strength is only pretend. 

“You’re not really gonna have a fun time finding out where we are,” he says, nearing his face to her, his voice going decibels down. “I didn’t wanna scare you, not while you’re _this_ fragile.”

He shakes his head. He’s so clearly, honestly concerned; Tristana would be beaming at how sweet it all is if he hadn’t just dropped that hell of a bomb. 

“Truth is,” he says, releasing her hand to crack his knuckles, fiddling. “I kinda didn’t know how I would tackle you waking up and the big reveal. I dunno what the heck I’m doing right now.”

“Just throw me in the cold water, dude. I’m good. I’m a tough cookie, come on. I did just make it out of whatever the hell this was, no?” She gives a couple reassuring pumps to her chest.

“Yeah, you did.” He flashes another cringe-inducingly awkward smile her way. A slow sigh after, he’s standing up. “Think you can get up, tough cookie? I think you’re better off taking it in with your two eyes.”

She nods; he offers a hand to help her up in a gesture that would be quite chivalric under any other context. His muscles are hard as a rock as he holds her weight up, puts her arm around his neck so she can land on her left foot; she notices her right leg is fully limp, thrashing like a freshly outta-the-pot noodle. As she gives a few tentative steps, using him as a crutch, the foot just drags on the wooden floor, lifeless; she doesn’t feel it. The dissociation disturbs her, she chooses to avoid focusing on it too intently.   
  
“You ready?” He asks with a deep breath.

”Yeah. You’re freaking me out a bit with how worried you are. Jeez, are we in some kinda black market dungeon?” She jokes. It fails; he does not look all that relaxed. 

“Well, certainly not that hellish,” he admits with a shrug. “But it’s just,...” he halts, tilting his head as he ponders what descriptive to use. “... _Weird_. Let’s just head out; she’s gonna want to see how her patient is doing anyway.”   
  
He stares at the doorway, at the cute little curtain of glass beads, like something truly baleful awaits them behind, and she can give him no more than a hesitant look as she hops her way out alongside him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this little thingy can be closed well with a final third chapter which would be the first time I actually complete a fanfic thing LOL 
> 
> also kudos for posting stuff at 2 am


	3. You’ve gotta go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’re gonna have a double date for a month.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack selection— Love, by Nancy Adams

Lulu’s nails cling to the stone of the portal pillar’s base. Her fingertips burn from the strength she’s putting on it. The forest around is brimming with life, but in her ears rings deafening silence and her own heartbeat, unbridled with distress. It’s almost too jarring a mix; her brain, usually soothed by the chirping of the birds and the rustling of the leaves, is overwhelmed by the vastness of it all—the noise of every individual leaf swaying and every single unit of an insect buzzing its wings. It feels like the forest is not nestling her so much as eating her, and she hates it. The forest has always been her only solace.

Five minutes ago, Tristana was holding her tight. Their hands entwined so rough that her left is still lightly sore from the gunner’s ferocious grip; her nose still has traces of the gunpowder scent that always clings to her skin. She’s all gone, now, and Lulu’s been staring at something a thousand dimensions away, digging her nails in the ground like she’s being dragged away from the fabric of reality and it’s her only anchor to the world.

They’d settled for evacuating her through an Ionian portal after days of deliberation. Ionia, they had concluded, was their safest bet, even factoring the Noxian invasion and war. It was closest to the edge between Bandle’s pocket in the spirit realm, and the whole place was just brimming with magical fauna and flora. She would feel right at home so long as Noxus didn’t find her, they’d said.

“ _Demacia’s risky. I don’t want a mageseeker to arrest her cause she turned some civilian into a cupcake or something.”_

_“They would do so even if she didn’t,” Teemo observed grimly. “She’s a yordle. One of those petricite badges would have her down in a second. I don’t even really know how Poppy **lives**.”_

_Tristana nodded her head in agreement. “Not Noxus, either. They would flay her for amulets and lucky charms made of her skin or something.”_

They both looked at each other with vague concern, and it made Lulu’s stomach churn that they had this discussion in her presence, minimal regard toward her feelings on the matter or physical existence in the room. Truth is, they didn’t have to do this extra step of landing her somewhere safe. She was supposed to be grateful the outlawry didn’t come with a bonus of being dropped smack in the middle of Noxus and calling it quits.

Grateful. That was how she was supposed to feel about it, but she couldn’t bring herself to be grateful. Terrified was more like it.

_“I would say Piltover’s safe as it comes, but they also just reduce us to cute squirrels...” Tristana sighed._

_“They apparently got a bit of an interest down in Zaun on how our mana would affect hextech. I don’t want her to get vivisected in the name of science or whatever Zaun wants to pass as such.”_

_“Where’d you get that from?” Tristana asked, visibly cringing._

_“Rumble,” was the answer, delivered with an uncomfortable shuffle. “Got it from Ziggs, who got it from a really pissy Loose Cannon, who got it from a bunch of shady characters she overheard at the sump discussing using Heimer. They weren’t really speaking of his knowledge or administration skills, either.” A bitter chuckle followed. “Told me to relay it to you so you didn’t accept mission assignments to portal settlements around the area, the dumbass.”_

“ _Jeez_ ,” had been the gunner’s answer. Lulu felt like dinner would make it out her mouth any second.

“ _Yeah. Bunch of rocks and hard places. The whole point of outlawry kinda is that people aren’t really **fond** of us out there. Or they are, but for the worst dang reasons. I really can’t estimate a truly safe place to drop her at...”_

And here she is. A portal near a Kinkou settlement that Kennen uses whenever he needs to travel back to Bandle City. It’s not like he is truly allowed to intercede for her, but he can intercede for Teemo, and Teemo can subtly nudge him in that direction. Outlawry does come with civilians not defending her as a direct kinswoman. Tristana had held her hand so tight, had said, _Please understand we can’t keep you here. The whole town will lynch us, and they will lynch you while at it._

She feels like her nails will pop out her fingertips any second. Pix has been trying to snap her out of it; failed. She kind of wants to swat Pix dead right now. Smack, and he’s gone, twitching like a cockroach, wings crumpled miserably.

She shakes her head. It won’t work, of course. He’s a fae spirit. He’s also all she has left. Pix, and a camping bag with her belongings. There’s nothing else. Her hands and the stone blur into blobs and only then does she realize she’s crying. Her whole face burns, her throat feels like she’s just shoved a balloon down her chew hole and it’s inflated bigger and is about to tear her larynx open.

The stone stains darker in a droplet next to her hand. Tristana held so stubbornly Teemo had to gently coax her into releasing; even he looked reluctant. They aren’t supposed to be protective of owtlaws. Outlaws are supposed to be yordle scum. Yet he’s packed a couple maps in her bag, ordering her sharply to never tell anyone the truth about how she got them; he’s said to her, as he steps away, _Take care of yourself_ ; those words packing so much power. So many more untold words.

It is with the strength of a behemoth that she pulls herself up on her feet. Pix flies up to her face and nuzzles her, as if that, as if his attempts at comforting her in Fae, are going inside her brain to give her any sense of reassurance. She wriggles her hand around her face, asking him to leave; she can’t do so with her mouth, not now. Nails dig in her scalp to scratch and pull at her purple mane; she bounces on her knees, sobbing. _Where do we go now? What do we do? Who do we talk to?_

Pix is flying in her face so she’ll stop raking her head. She doesn’t want to listen. She wants to shut her eyes tight and wake up in her room at the house of the soldiers. It was no fun, but it was better than _this_. _What do we do?!_

She looks up at the sky, at the gods, questioning them. The sun hat she’s supposed to be wearing rubs against her calf, rustled by the wind. It’s fallen off at some point. The sun burns her eyes. _Where do we go?_

She looks in front of herself, lifting the hem of her dress to wipe her face clean off snot and tears. It feels damp and sticky and itchy from tear salt and it’s disgusting.

Around her lays no more than trees. Green. The monumental echoes of the forest.

* * *

“You know, Lulu, I know you’re not exactly renowned for your good taste,” Tristana spits. The words still slur, and she’s been exhausted beyond any more practice to try and sound imposing. “But I really need to tell you about your shit taste in men.”

There’s no actual dining table in the household. Tristana’s sinking in a pile of cushions of colors and shapes everywhere in the spectrum, slumping her face in a hand for extra support, in front of a coffee table that rests only half a yordle’s height above the floor. She’s been staring at the scene unfolding in the kitchen with amusement that she doesn’t show, but relishes in regardless. Teemo and Lulu are having what is transparently a culinary war; they shuffle around the kitchen, working together with what she can only call _hostile synergy._ It makes no sense, but is fun anyway. Her mouth is already watering from the smell of pancakes and toast and scrambled eggs. She had awoken at a good time for the foursome to have brunch.

The sorceress chuckles and nods, her stirring of the pancake batter picking up in vigor as she turns to Tristana. “I’m gonna teach you an important rule of verbal banter,” she sneers. “You don’t attack the opponent on things that you are just as faulty of. That leaves a clear opening.” She lands the metallic bowl on the kitchen counter with such energy the batter actually bounces lightly, spraying droplets on the bowl’s walls.

“Look at this man, standing here next to me in my kitchen,” she nearly screams, accompanying it with a flamboyant swing of her arms to show Teemo off. “Shorter than you. Pot belly. The most boring cream and brown fur from the vastness of the yordle fur spectrum. Uses a blowgun and fungi, like an absolute savage. Probably has a few war crimes under his belt. This is what you picked. Analyze this first before you call me out on my choices, Commander.”

The scout seems unfazed by the hardcore roast just dropped on him. Something about his stoic concentration on the pan where the pancakes sit tells Tristana he’s been waging these battles so frequently for three days and two nights that he’s grown dulled to anything the mages stab him with. _Good thing you got backup now_ , she thinks, realizing she’s baring her fangs at the sorceress.

“Big talk for someone who picked the Tiny Master of Evil from all the possible male yordle pool across Runeterra. You’re seriously dissing me on banging someone who did war crimes? Even if that was true, you’re _seriously_ telling me that while you’re in love with _this abomination_?” It is her who’s gesturing to Veigar now, who idly browses a tome from the generous library of the house. He looks exactly as vacant as the scout—the two must have been going at it even harder.

“At least I don’t fool myself into thinking he’s some kind of hero,” Lulu growls, stabbing the bowl with the wooden spoon she held in her right. “I am firm in knowing I am mates with someone who has an atrocious rep. I picked him partially because of it. What does that say about both of you?” She spins dramatically to open a shelf and pull a big round plate out of it.

Teemo seamlessly lifts the pancakes off the pan with a spatula and places them atop in a neat column, and as if on cue, she grabs them and gracefully lands them on the small table, following soon after with a second plate of scrambled eggs and a final one of fresh toast. It makes Tristana’s stomach groan with craving. The captain is the one to bring over four mugs of coffee; one has an overwhelming ratio of milk over coffee, one is an even fifty-fifty, and two are pure black.

Lulu smugly gets ahold of the tiny ceramic sugar holder sitting amidst the table, and pours entirely too much brown sugar on her already diluted coffee. That must sparsely taste like coffee anymore. _Gross_.

Teemo follows suit, pouring what can barely be a teaspoon, and hands it over to herself—teaspoon and a half. Teemo remembered to pour her exact preferred amount of milk, and she wants to kiss him for it.

Veigar just coils his claws around his mug and sips, no shits given, no sugar given either. _Well if that doesn’t speak of the void in his soul._ The mage doesn’t pull his eerie yellow irises off the book, not even when he tugs the sorceress in by the collar of her t-shirt to peck her cheek with a deadpan “thanks”.

“We’ve got a bit of batter left for tomorrow morning,” she says to him in a voice that is probably unnecessarily low for such a trivial matter. “I’ll cool it after we eat.” His response is just a caress of her cheek and a nod of approval.

Tristana is about to assault the scrambled eggs when the sorceress slaps her hand away, prompting an immediate jump from Teemo to push her off and a corresponding one from Veigar, who growls a threat at him. The air turns hostile so fast it makes Tristana want to laugh and scream simultaneously.

“No fighting or eating until we thank Nature,” Lulu interrupts, sharp, and both men simmer down, shuffling uncomfortably in their cushions.

Tristana’s thrown for a loop until the little enchantress addresses her. “Hands on the table facing up,” she orders, and she raises her eyebrows in understanding and obeys promptly, lowering her head and closing her eyes. It hurts just to hold the position.

“Nature, giver of soil, water, sky and sun. We are humbled you give us the chance to experience one of your vast cycles. Thank you for giving life to every being that has then transmuted to give us this food. This meal nourishes us with your life, and we appreciate your gift to us.”

“Enjoy the food,” she calls, folding a pancake with a pinch of her right’s fingers and lifting it to her mouth. It signals the end of the brief prayer, and Tristana digs in the eggs eagerly, stuffing her mouth.

She’s stuck in a limbo of half-sleep, lost in thought; as soon as her body had food, fatigue came crashing down on her, curb stomping her into lying with heavy eyelids in a couch, unaware of what the other three are up to. She has only taken true notice of her surroundings now, after the brunch, while she fights to keep her ears sharp and her eyes open. Teemo dropped her there, telling her to catch a break, and left to who knows where.

She doesn’t really want to nap, though. Neither Veigar nor Lulu have made advances of actual physical violence, but just having them around is enough to make her feel on edge. She actually wonders why Teemo hasn’t been gutted yet; how they made it this far alive. A consciousness limbo feels just right.

The ceiling is made of olive fabric wherever she sits in the house; the decor itself brims with color, shelves with all sorts of objects fill up the walls of a living room. Books, jars with various spices, a whole segment of wall in the back that is just lined with clocks of all sorts of shapes, sizes, and inner mechanics; a big magic circle painted to the right of clock heaven that holds what appears to be a blueprint of the home inside its perimeter—probably the spell that holds all this together. Posters. Paintings. Flower jars. A telescope in a corner, a constellation map comfortably pinned on a wall and lined with notes from Veigar; it’s almost too much to take in. The kitchen sits as an open annex and a single door leads to what must be Veigar and Lulu’s quarters.

A spiral staircase connects this place with the cozy, plain guest bedroom where she and Teemo were set to sleep. It goes up further beyond their bedroom, but she doesn’t know where its actual end leads. Said room floats, quite literally, over this communal area; a box uncannily existing annex to the stairs and above this section, almost magicked there as an afterthought. It probably didn’t exist before they arrived, she deduces.

It has to be Lulu who fashioned this, and it must be some pocket dimensional space, probably made with polymorph magic; creation of domestic spaces is not a thing darker magic is inclined to do. The fabric above looks like the entire household is surrounded by a massive tent, and it feeds her speculation; it probably is some kind of spatial distortion safely hidden under something a lot more nondescript. She couldn’t imagine Lulu structuring something like this, much as the evidence screams otherwise. She and Veigar must have been smashing for a while now. It’s the only way Tristana can fathom her sudden beef in both magic and verbal assassination.

It’s precisely the woman she’s mulling over that appears in her field of view and breaks her trance. “Hey, sunshine,” she calls, and Tristana’s eyes focus on her face and the curtain of purple curls, rather than her own mindscape. She can read the acknowledgement, and so, continues:

“You should bathe, and I need to clean your wounds.”

Tristana nods dryly, not quite understanding what she is supposed to do; her eyes follow Lulu as she crouches next to her and grabs the hand holding the IV canal. “I’m gonna take this out. You’re awake, so I don’t think we should exploit it any further.”

Lost in the whirlwind of adrenaline and pain, Tristana’s not noticed the sorceress has lilac healer tape on the back of her left hand, much like her. The dotted edges of what appears to be a rather grisly bruise peek from beneath. It makes her brows furrow. Lulu delicately coaxes the needle out of her vein; it still makes her shudder—It always will, the rough-and-tumble soldier exterior never quite stifling it. Tristana has to humbly accept she is gentler about it than every nurse who has IV’d her after an awry mission in Bandle. Lulu has always been so uncannily soft to touch, her hands on Tristana’s feel like they are velvet. It’s rather envious; it awakes a side of her she doesn’t want to rouse. Veigar must deeply enjoy just touching her. _He better._ She wishes she could give Teemo this delight with her own skin.

Unlike she did on herself, Lulu actually peels the remaining tape off her. It makes her lightly tremble once more; the peach fuzz of females is always tugged uncomfortably by the adhesive. Her professionalism as she wipes the wound with cotton doused in alcohol makes her feel something she can’t describe but is definitely _strange_. Like she’s watching someone else entirely that just so happens to be identical to Lulu. Or maybe, she’s watching a Lulu that comes from far along in the future.

“What’s up with your hand?” She mumbles right as the other’s about to stand up and leave.

“I gave you mana. We mages are just brimming with it, supplying it constantly since we need it to cast. Constant casting makes you produce more of it to keep up with the bodily demand. You were lucky you two were found by two walking bags of mana, so to speak. Did it with a specially enchanted canal to filter mana from blood real-time and give you the raw thing. You also lucked out being found by a fellow female yordle. I would be hesitant the transfusion would have worked if you weren’t receiving it from someone of the same sex and species. Bodies can react wacky to foreign things like that.”

She’s gone before Tristana can even muster the strength to yell at her to wait and come back. That little monologue has implanted a barrage of questions in her head, some of which revolve around how nonchalantly she’s delivered that information. She assumes the chance to question Lulu further has just slipped away—much to her frustration—but then the little witch is back to her side, mixing a creamy green paste on a stone bowl resting on her thighs with a small spoon.

She’s answering the question before Tristana can even ask it. “Antiseptic. I have to change your compresses daily. I had to bring buckets of water from the river outside and boil it to wash the surrounding skin since you couldn’t move. It was better that you rested. I didn’t bathe you out of respect for your intimacy, and Teemo doesn’t know how to properly manhandle a patient that’s so delicate so he could do it. But I can help you climb outside today so he can and I renew the ones you have. Still got some of the purified water left. Would be good for you to be out in the sun, too. That’s good for almost anyone.”

She sighs, dabs the tips of her index and middle fingers of the right hand with alcohol on a new cotton ball, and dips them in the mixture. Purple spirals burst from her hand and trace patterns around the paste. It’s brief, but looks raw as hell to Tristana. She doesn’t dare ask about how she’s enchanted it, or why.

Lulu stands up to offer her hand, holding the bowl with the other. “It was a bit rough. You lost a lot of mana. I’m relieved you even woke up. I don’t like losing patients. I gave you from my own until my nose bled. Vei was pretty angry at that,” she drones as the commander gets ahold of her forearm and slowly sits up, wraps around her shoulders, and carefully balances her way on her feet. It’s pretty tough with just one leg.

Lulu helps her clumsily hop her way to the base of the staircase. She is nowhere as firm as Teemo. It’s rather entertaining. They land a foot together, and the handrail and Lulu is enough for her to start tumbling the way up.

“Why are you doing this?” Tristana asks. There is a lot more she wishes she could elaborate, but her head’s stirred.

“Spite,” is the answer. “I pondered just leaving you to die when we first saw you. Veigar joked about how the Demacians did the dirty job for us, and we should just leave. But you know what I realized then?” She turns to look at Tristana, eyes narrowed into slits. “That’s what you two did. And I didn’t want to stoop to that level. It made me want to barf. I decided it would be much more more fun if you two lived forever knowing you abandoned a girl to die in an Ionia portal, and what she did in return was save the lives of both of you. Hope the thought snack is tasty.”

Tristana doesn’t answer; suddenly everything’s spinning and her heart drums so hard inside her it rings in her ears.

It feels like she’s skipped in time when the staircase ends and they crouch into a tunnel of more fabric. She struggles to make her way through—her leg is hard to drag while she’s bent forward, and nothing feels real. The mid-summer sun outside is so bright it makes her wince as her pupils adjust; the view of the Demacian wilderness is swallowed by heat and light for an instant. She looks back to check where they exited from—a rather dumpy looking tent made of ragged olive fabric.

Teemo has just finished scrubbing himself thoroughly in the river beach for the first time in the last two days when Lulu arrives to deliver his mate to him. He’s shredded a few pieces of soap bark with bare claws and disposed them in a stone near the water’s edge, used part to clean himself, and left another part intact, at Lulu’s behest, for her. He receives her off the enchantress’ frail arms and gingerly lands her on a smooth, rounded rock that’s just about the right size to serve as a stool for her to sit comfortably. Her feet rest in the shallow water; he picked this one rock knowing it would facilitate him the process of bathing her.

The gunner’s visibly shaken, and he doesn’t want to give any of the other two the luxury of seeing him concerned for her—still, he sits cross-legged before her, straight on the sand. Lulu’s forbidden him from keeping her baggy pants on; after Tristana herself is cleaned, the two of them are to wash the blood off. She didn’t want dry blood anywhere near the wound, and she’s consistently shown to be so knowledgeable on healing that he can’t help but follow her direction. As such, what sits in front of him is his baggy-eyed, weakened beloved, wearing nothing but her uniform crop top and tomboy boxers. She looks positively _miserable_.

“She tell you why she saved our asses yet?” Is the first thing she says. Her voice is but a thread.

Teemo closes his eyes and takes a deep sigh. She did. In a rather hostile way, to boot. Mocking him. Spitting it in his face so he can’t help but feel alienated. Veigar’s really built her up on psychological defense; seeing this wide-eyed spirit of flowers and innocence hold herself with such imposing grace and subduing him so proficiently throws him off.

“Yeah,” he answers, forlorn. “Not very gently.” He shifts to lift himself on his knees. “You’re still a tad too weak to scrub yourself. She asked me to go take a bath and then clean you while you were astral projecting on the couch.”

“I feel like shit,” is the plain answer.

“Don’t blame yourself. Veigar’s a master manipulator. He’s just rubbed off on her. They’re trying to make us feel bad.” He leans into her and gently manhandles her arm off the crop top’s sleeve, trying to spare her any energy expense. “I’ve been called all you can imagine while you were unconscious. We barely talked anything other than two-ways bullying. The rest was just Lulu having me assist her with waking you up. It’s been pretty garbage, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Tristana whines, and he feels like someone’s straight up stabbing him in the chest repeatedly.

“Nay,” he cuts her off, sliding the neck of the crop top over her head. “Don’t say that stuff. If I were the knocked out one, you would have endured this... _situation_.” He grabs for a few tiny shreds of soap bark, rubs them in his palms vigorously, making them foam. “And you would also give me some choice words if I apologized for it. It was forty-eight Demacians. Could’ve been either of us. So don’t blame yourself for any of this.”

“Let’s just get outta here,” she groans, drawing another sigh out of him. “I got patched up, innit?”

He holds her with a forearm, supporting her belly; splits her hair from the back of her neck, lathers the soap gently there, beginning the thorough scrub. She’s so sticky. “We can’t, babe.”

Tristana has relaxed to his touch; he can feel her muscles soften as he rubs his hand through in tight circles. “We’ve lost a number of portals. Jarvan’s people haven’t torn them down cause they don’t even bother understanding _how_ they work. So they just set camp around them and are ready to kill anything that wants to use ’em. We’re far from anything we can go back in without someone skinning us...” He’s moved to her middle and lower back; her entire back side is bubbly.

“That, and... well, I’ve gotten some intel outta Lu while she was trying to not let you cross the rainbow bridge. Petricite’s pretty messy when you’re such a naturally magic-infused... _thing_ , turns out. Mana helps a bunch of body functions. It’s like you were having your life sucked outta you,” he explains. He doesn’t really want to drop this bomb on her now; knowing how tough she can be barely means anything when he has to support her weight to ease her pain.

He pulls her up an inch to lift the boxers off her hip and drag them down;lets her fall back on the rock, tugging them all the way to her feet after making his way around her body, trying to not lose his grip. He lets go for just the needed time to rub more bark for soap, and resumes the deep cleaning, now kneeled in front of her, starting on the sides of her face and down her neck. She’s saying nothing; they’ve both just focused on the brief, quiet moment of intimacy. Her eyes look so loving and grateful and sad and apologetic and he stares back trying to tell her that it’s alright, that this is no burden on him.

“Bummer,” she says with a bitter chuckle; clearly at a loss for words. She lets herself slump just enough to let her forehead touch his.

“Yeah, bummer,” he answers, smiling at her attempt to lighten the situation. “Mana helps with healing. You’re stuck in this hellish loop of not having enough mana so the wounds heal slowly. It feels kind of sadistic for Demacia’s usual approach to war to use weapons like these. Like they just showed their true colors.” He slides his head along the connecting point so Tristana can lean against the crown and he can deep scrub her lower belly and thighs.

He feels her sighing; it ruffles the thicker fur atop his head. “So just drop it on me, then,” she says. “How long?”

He laughs. “You’re such a smart cookie. About a month, at least. Lulu knows about mana restoration, just cause _so many_ mages have been stabbed with these things and she’s healed them. A month is what she guesses you need to get this bad girl back to proper business.” He gives a hearty smack to her right thigh, near the butt; she’s so stunning, even when fighting to keep herself together. It warms him when the slap gets a giggle out of her, even if he knows she didn’t actually _feel_ it. “A month is also more or less what it will take us to trek lesser-traveled paths to a settlement Garen and Luxanna Crownguard have to shelter mages. There’s a portal nearby that Poppy has kept in business. Veigar and Luluwill lead us there and let us use it to go home, so long as we don’t backstab them.” He quickly rinses the soap off her body with a series of adept handfuls of water poured all over her.

“Woah,” the gunner says while he cups some more in his palms and pours it on her head, rubbing a final ration of foam and thoroughly massaging her scalp. He can feel her simmer down, her eyes close peacefully as she continues talking. “That’s one hell of an info dump. Wasn’t Garen one of Jarvan’s star men or something?...”

He cuts her off. “I got a lot of fresh gossip when I wasn’t doing word battles, it turns out,” he says, laughing. “Garen was Jarvan’s good boy until it leaked out that Luxanna’s a mage. He fled himself. He knew Jarvan wouldn’t be happy with _just_ firing him from the guard. Then after he was gone it also leaked out he had a star-crossed lovers type of deal with the daughter of a big Noxian name, who _also_ works as an assassin for Noxus, may I add. Can you imagine?”

Tristana lets out a cackle and coughs right after, wincing. “Fuckin’ hell,” she says as Teemo tilts her head back and rinses the foam off her hair. “It would make a sick novel, not gonna lie.” He can’t help but laugh with her. “I’m glad Poppy’s still, like, a thing that’s alive. She just sorta went MIA after all this garbage went down. It’s good she’s still bashing people’s heads in.”

“Yeah... They didn’t tell me a lot about her. I wanted to ask, but it’s hard to get either of them to talk. It’s the worst. I’m glad you woke up, honestly... Daily life gets boring without your fireworks.” He seizes the chance of finishing his rinse to cup her face; rub one of her cheeks with his hands. _I’m so relieved I don’t even know how to tell you._

“A month, huh...” she says, leaning into the touch.

She finally opens her eyes; he helps her back on her feet so they can work together to re-dress her. “Wild. We’re gonna have hell of a ride.”

“We just gotta be strong, and you’re already pretty good at that.” He finishes slipping her crop top on after they’re done with the undies, shifts to holding her weight so they can go search for Lulu. “Think of it as a really weird holiday. The people at the base know what’s up, but they probably think we’re dead... Radio’s gone since a while ago. We can just hope they sent a search party when they heard my message. I _did_ think we were gonna get dragged by Kindred, so it wasn’t really encouraging, though...” he shrugs, helping her uphill to the grassy clearing where the tent is.

“I’m gonna have fun trying to bully Lu into telling me _how_ in the name of Nature she ended hooking up with this dude, at least,” Tristana jokes, fully assuming the near future with humble resilience. He admires how quick she is to simply resign and adapt to new circumstances. Very scout-y, he would say, if someone asked him.

He giggles back at her. “Yeah, we’re gonna learn new ways to diss people, at the very least.” Gradually, the skeevy tent, a mat for wiping feet and shoes before it, and a rope to hang clothes from come into view, and once more he braces for duty. “We’re gonna go over a map to plan our trail once you’ve got fresh bandages. Trip starts tomorrow if possible. I’ll carry you when I have to. All of us just want this to end ASAP.”

She nods; lands a quick peck on the corner of his lips with determination as he helps her hop back inside the villain’s lair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter of this work. Absolute madness

**Author's Note:**

> Can’t believe this actually happened and I enjoyed writing it. This is a spring miracle


End file.
